Lavellan's Lament
by Iciciro
Summary: "You want to know how she got those scars."


**A/N**

 **So basically, this is me being dissatisfied with the wimpy way my kick ass Inquisitor dealt with Solas, and in a sick way, getting out a story that won't leave me alone until I write it out. I feel that whatever the Dalish say about upholding tradition, whatever they got wrong. Those are the new traditions now, and only Solas knows otherwise. It's disrespectful of him to ask her to turn her back on her upbringing. ANYWAYS. Off the soap box. This is rated T for one f-bomb dropped.**

"So what's with the, um." He gestured to his face. A new addition to the Chargers, he had a lot to learn about the Inquisition. He had done a good job of not staring—the Inquisitor was a scary lady even when one wasn't on her bad side. Varric decided to take pity on him and threw a withering look at the Iron Bull (currently engaged in a hearty drinking competition with Dorian) for not explaining sooner.

"You want to know how she got those scars," the dwarf stated, leaning on the sturdy tavern tables. They were built out of strong wood, made with drunken idiots in mind. The man—more of a boy really—nodded, eyes flicking to the intimidating elf sitting in the corner. "It starts with the elf, the other one. Not Sera, but Solas. You didn't know her before, but she had a little more life. She was abrasive but really had a sparkling sense of humor with a knack for those horribly corny jokes that everyone secretly enjoys. When she met Solas, she immediately flirted with him. Once it got more serious, I could see how he made her feel. It was like she melted when he was near. It was almost cute."

"You don't sound happy about that," the boy observed, knocking back a quick shot of tequila.

"I'm not," Varric growled. "If you ask me, the damned elf should have ended it before it started. See, she's die-hard for her Dalish clan. Not really a true believer, but she'd defend them to the death. She used to have these tattoos. On her face. Blood writing or some sod. They were called vallaslin."

.

He'd already joked about getting her into bed, and now he was leading her into a secluded grove that was beautiful beyond imagining. She wasn't easy to rattle, but this gave her a whole flock of butterflies. They'd been arguing, but that didn't matter now. His fingers entwined with hers was what mattered. The soft glow of deep mushroom against his pale skin, reflecting in his eyes as he looked at her. He asked if she could feel the veil—it was so thin. Honestly, she couldn't, but he looked so happy she didn't feel like ruining the mood. Her tingling was coming from somewhere else… His hand caressed her face, as he confessed he tried to find some way to express his feelings. She reached up, touching the place he'd touched. Her response was suggestive, goading him. It was only after his confession of something he didn't call love but it was that he hesitated.

"The truth," he said, glancing sideways. "Your face. The vallaslin. In my travels in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean." Lavellan blinked. What they meant? This was hardly a seductive topic.

"They honor the gods," she replied, but he started shaking his head before she even finished talking.

"No. They are slave markings, at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan," he explained. She barely understood, and he tried to elaborate further. Masters marking their slaves like cattle. One more thing the Dalish got wrong. Despair welled up in her chest. Why bring her here to tell her this? Skyhold was as good a place as any to crush her spirits. He apologized, brow furrowed. He was worried, yes.

"We try to preserve our culture, and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?" Her voice was small. She did not have a small personality. His next words came out rushed, wanting to wipe the pain from her as soon as possible.

"Don't say that. For all the Dalish got wrong they did one thing right—they made you. I didn't tell you this to hurt you. If you want, I know a spell…" His eyes squinted with the warm smile at his face, but she looked down. It was hard to make sense of the weight of his words. Individually, they all made sense. Correct syntax. Simple diction. Their meaning was still digging into her, not quite having reached understanding. "I can remove the vallaslin."

She looked up into his eyes, that face she'd come to love so very much. He seemed so eager and willing. Like all he wanted in the world was to help her, but the words came too quickly out.

"My people vowed never to submit to slavery," she said. She wanted her voice to be strong, but it sounded like she was about to cry. His face softened, and his hands pulled at hers.

"I'm so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look at you and see what you truly are. You deserve better than what those cruel marks represent." Then it was quiet, the soft buzzing of insects a background noise. The waterfall bubbled on. He was waiting for her reply, and how could she hear his voice and see his face and say anything other than 'take the vallaslin away.' Solas looked so relieved. He told her to sit and sat with her, always gazing like an old lover. His hands glowed blue, and they moved over her face before her doubts could find her voice. She could feel the markings. They weren't exactly dissolving or disappearing. More like they were leaving, departing the skin they'd held as home. He smoothed back her hair, holding her face. As he looked, none of it mattered anymore. It was done. She was so far from her clan, but it was fine because he was looking at her like that. Like an old lover.

"Ar lasa mala revas. You are free," he said finally. They stood together. It wasn't like she could see it or see any differently. He was the same handsome Solas. "You are so beautiful."

Their lips approached and pressed together, sweet yet insistent. His arm held her close, and her hand clutched his shirt. The kiss was exactly like him: understated but with enormous gravity. Quiet. And just like him, it ended too soon. He pulled back, and she could see the pain in his eyes. He searched her face for something, she couldn't know. Her head tilted, and a question passed between them. She wanted his lips back against hers, to again lose the Inquisitor title, to not even be Lavellan. To wrap her arms around his waist, tilting her head back to let his tongue slide alongside hers. She wanted to make love to him. She thought it was simple, but behind his eyes was something so much more complex. It made her puny love feel small in comparison.

"And I'm sorry." It was like an extension to the kiss, an apology for having done it but also for having stopped. "I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again." Never mind that she wanted the distraction. Craved it like air, yearned for the quiet moments in this new deafening world.

"Solas…" She whispered. As a warning. As a question. As someone who cared. He began backing away, and she took one staggering, bewildered step forwards.

"Please, Vhenan," he begged.

"Solas, don't leave me. Not now." Her voice trembled. "I love you." No use. He shook his head.

"You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world…"

"Why not this one?" She wouldn't understand, so much was happening. Why was he suddenly so cold? He held up his hands like the barriers he liked using to keep out thieves and demons. He shut her out like he shut out the world. She could almost picture him liquefying and sliding into the Fade.

"I can't. I'm sorry." He turned to walk off, shoulders hunched and face downcast.

"Well why the fuck not?" She suddenly screamed. He was supposed to be her refuge, so she could relax. Now she saw that she was the Inquisitor. Lavellan donned her mental armor and marched over to his surprised face. "You're always there with the answers to my questions. What happened that time and there? What's happened right here, Solas? I thought I was coming here to be loved, yet here I am getting abandoned. Fat lot of good my intuition does me at home, huh? On the battlefield, I'm as sharp as razors, but with you, I can never keep my head straight. Maybe if I could, I would have seen this coming."

"No, Vhenan. This was not you doing. I shouldn't have… This is better in the long run," he tried to say. She scoffed, folding her arms. Despite the tense atmosphere, he found it cute. She always did that when she was angry.

"The long run? Tomorrow, I might have my head on a red templar's pike. I might take another swim in the Fade. One of Sera's pranks may go terribly wrong, and I could end up hanging from my balcony, a rope around my neck that was meant for my ankles. All I know for a fact is that right now, I want you. I love you, and I know you love me," she argued.

"Yes!" He shouted, getting closer. "And because I love you, I'm doing what's best." He turned and stalked away. He almost got to the mouth of the cave before her heard a hard voice follow.

"My vallaslin," she said coldly. "I want it back."

"To what end? Revert back into your slavery to a history that never existed?" He called back, not even turning.

"Whatever it meant in the past, now it means that I am a proud Dalish. I should never have let you take that from me." Her resolve was set in stone just as that ink was etched into her being. His hands clenched and unclenched.

"It matters not. I have no way of restoring it," he snapped. Her heart plummeted, as he took another step.

"May the Dread Wolf never haunt your footsteps," she called, as he marched out of the grove. For a moment, it felt like she knew, but that wasn't possible. Guilt washed over him, and tears found their way down his trembling cheeks. The Inquisitor collapsed on the rock they'd sat on, water lapping at her fingertips as she hung over the side. Her eyes inched open, and she saw her face. Naked. Bare. Her fingers automatically went to her daggers. If she needed to write in blood, she could do that.

.

"She's told me she likes them better than the tattoos sometimes. When she's trying to get something she wants, people are sorely intimidated by the scars," Varric finished. The pair lapsed into silence, and the rogue's gaze landed on said elf. She also enjoyed, some snide part of her, the effect it had on Solas. She enjoyed knowing that he knew it was his fault. She loved him. By the Maker did she love him, but now it was delicately braided with pain and anger. And Varric understood that.

But he couldn't ignore Solas' pain. It isn't hard see the agony behind his eyes when he thinks she isn't watching. Then there are sometimes when she is, but it's too hard to hide. The feeling of the constraints of this world, this life. The unfairness of it all, and why can't there just be a happily ever after? The world is unforgiving. And Varric understood that too.


End file.
